


Plot Convergence

by aireagoir



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1930s, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Magic, Non-Sexual Age Play, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing, minor thoughts of self harm, non graphic suicide discussion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aireagoir/pseuds/aireagoir
Summary: When Bucky decides to be honest with Steve about his feelings and hopes, he takes him to a beautiful and secluded log cabin for Christmas.The cabin is a fixed point in space where Stephen Strange can align the possible worlds where Bucky and Steve MIGHT have lived. They could have a choice of what happens next, as long as they see what each alternate life would have been for them. Each world is bright, colorful, dizzying in its infinite possibilities. Some of them seem tame and comforting. Some of them seem out-sized, threatening.And a few of these worlds? Steve is never, EVER going to stop blushing.For the Stucky Secret Santa 2017, let's find out what happens when the Boys from Brooklyn stay in Strange's cabin...and explore every world that notlucy ever created.





	1. Begin the Beguine Already, Dammit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notlucy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/gifts).



> Please enjoy this journey, notlucy!  
> Merry Christmas from your Secret Santa,  
> Aireagoir.

**December 24, 3:00 pm**

_This is it,_ Bucky said to himself, hands bopping on the steering wheel, the left fingers muted by the soft leathery material in some inoffensive color nobody remembers five seconds after it’s gone. _Brooklyn to Italy to Austria to England to Russia to DC to Bucharest to STARK’S GODDAMNED MIDTOWN PHALLUS OF RECOVERY FOR THE CRIMINALLY RECKLESS…to here. All this way for the perfect Christmas. All this way for THE perfect Christmas. But not ALL THE WAY, IS IT, DAMMIT?!_

“Steve, I’m so, so sorry. I deliberately took the Ford because I knew even Tony couldn’t install our mutual disembodied friend if I had driven it off the lot in Jersey four hours ago. I didn’t even get the—”

“NO, Bucky. You had a good plan. A great plan, honestly! I’m just so excited we’re going away for a few days! No Avenging, no saving the world, just two guys getting a real good break from it all. Now. I won’t let you do that shame-spiral all the way down just because we had one little glitch. Cars get stuck all the time, roads become blocked, even Jarvis couldn’t materialize a snowplow 45 miles from the nearest town. It happens! We can push ourselves back out, and drive in reverse real carefully til we get to the road! Nobody’s out in this much snow. C’mon, we need a stretch anyway.”

Bucky shook his head like a pouty but stylishly long-haired puppy. He’d taken to doing the Puppy Pout about the second week of October. Because Steve didn’t know anything about the cabin, he couldn’t possibly understand how important it was they get there as soon as humanly possible. But. He could count on Steve’s never-ending optimism and patience. The head shake was, theoretically, a smile of fond exasperation. But the Puppy Pout? It seemed like Steve was always looking in the center of Bucky's lips, and tracing to one corner, when he did the Puppy Pout. Then he'd give in. So the head shake was a disagreement. The Puppy Pout? Since the second week in October the Puppy Pout was, in reality, it was a bit more like, well…

_Game. On._

 

**The Second Week of October**

Bucky and Nat were baking in the communal kitchen, comparing the butteriest-and-sugariest of all the Christmas candies to make for the times Bucky needed a project. Peanut brittle, almond clusters, and Puppy Chow were out (too hard, too nutty, too animal shelterish) while Rice Krispie treats, homemade marshmallows, and chocolate-covered cherries were in (crun-chewy enough, pillowy goodness suitable for hot chocolate, Bucky had plans to casually ask Steve if he could take his cherry. Or something?).

Nat had giggled when she confided it was cute that Bucky got his way with the Puppy Pout but Steve always got _his_ way when he went to run his fingers through Bucky’s hair just enough to tuck it gently behind his ear. That night it had taken Bucky three daydreams and a marathon shower jacking session to realize Natasha does neither gigging nor confiding. He muted the Arctic Monkeys on his Starkphone (“Do I Wanna Know,” playing on repeat because Bucky is all about the meta humor when he can remember he’s allowed both meta and humor now). Nat picked up in .05 seconds of the first ring.

“Define cute, Widow.”

He could hear her cackling inside her brain at him.

“Oh, Yasha. Okay. Come down here, and bring the Kix cereal candy things you made.”

And so he went. They ate tiny pebbles of caramelized non-food, shared some vodka, and Natasha brought up a display that Jarvis had prepared. It was picture after picture of Steve smiling at Bucky with his face and slaying the rest of the whole fucking world with the pain behind his eyes.

“Yasha, it’s okay now…you know that, right? ты его любишь?”

Bucky shoved three quarters of a cup of Kix in his mouth and refused to meet her eyes when she asked again if he loved Steve. He reckoned there was someone else who should know first.

He fervently hoped it would be himself.

“The thing is, Yasha, I didn’t just put together the slide show for fun. We, Clint and I, uh…” Nat trailed off.

Galloping Gorbechevs. She was _blushing_.

“Natashenka, today you giggled in front of me, pried into my non-existent love life, AND you just blushed redder than Steve did the time I caught him practicing kissing with the cover of Astounding Stories magazine. What the hell is going on?”

“When I got back,” she started, pulling her legs up to her chest and talking over her knees, “it was a lot like you. I mean, I wasn’t frozen out of time, but I was a weapon. I wasn’t a person. It took me six months to tell anybody I was walking on broken bones in my left foot.

“I was so fucked up that I was convinced Clint was a triple agent and one night I showed up at his place drunk and really out of it. I started crying and promising Clint oral sex every night for the rest of his life if he’d fix me. He said that sounded great but maybe we should try Stephen instead.”

Bucky felt his eyebrows touch his hairline.

“You were supposed to blow Captain America every night for the rest of his life?”

Nat snorted. “You should see your face, Yasha. He meant we should see Stephen Strange. I was so damn desperate I agreed. And, well, he directed us to a place only two people on Earth can find. It wasn’t exactly a place. It was, I guess you could say it was a fixed point. I can’t explain what it was. I can’t even explain what was there. Strange was a little hand wavy and condescending about the details. But I can tell you that it helped. He asked if Clint was the right person to take there. When I asked how I’d know, he said 'If he’s the one you want most to return to, he’s the one you should go with.' I bet Steve is the person you should take there, Yasha.”

Bucky hemmed. He hawed. He made a variety of facial expressions but no definitive words.

“Which cover, Yasha?”

“What?”

“The cover of Astounding Stories, who was Steve kissing?”

“I always assumed it was the girl, Nat.”

“You mean there were other things on the cover?”

“Uh, there was a giant gorilla holding a mostly naked young man.”

“Oh, Yasha,” Nat breathed, “take Steve to the damn cabin already.”

 

So, Bucky made the call.

 

**December 24 th, 3:10 pm**

 

“One more time, Buck!! Just push real hard, I think the next one is—”

“AAAAARRRGGGGGG!! ROGERS! I’m not in labor, I’m trying to move this piece of sh—”

“Hey, now, don’t get mad at Betty!” Steve said as he leaned against the back of the SUV. The irony of the “sporting” model was palpable. Weren’t skiing, snowboarding, and ice skating done in places where it gets cold? Also, Sam would never know his crack about the Ford acronym Fix or Repair Daily seemed appropriate. Steve had asked for a good name to go with Ford and when Sam said Betty Ford was iconic in helping people help themselves Steve had decided it was a great name for their vehicle. Now, as they pushed one more time together, the super soldiers gave all their all in Mother Nature vs. the Boys from Brooklyn. Mother Nature won. The second place trophy was the back windshield wiper; it had come off when Steve had tried to remove the ice building around it. Bucky, ever the discourteous loser, had flung it across the snowdrifts. It was invisible now. That was only 20 minutes ago. This blizzard wasn’t kidding.

“Steve, this entire thing is a piece of shi—"

“James Buchanan Barnes, you will not use vulgar language in front of a lady,” Steve grinned as he covered Betty’s taillights as thought the Ford had ears. Then he shoved Bucky towards the front of the car and they climbed back in to warm up for a second. Steve’s cheeks were pinker than usual. “It’s not Betty’s fault it snows a lot in the mountains! Hell, we should have googled ‘Blizzards around Mount Mansfield” or something.’ This is my fault, too. We can’t get any signal here but if we walk to the top of that—”

“No.”

“Buck, one phone call and Bruce cou—”

“NO.”

“How about Clint—”

“AGAIN: NO.”

“Sam is the dictionary definition of discre—”

“I’m feeling like you’re not picking up what I'm putting down here, Steve.”

“Not my intent. I’m only suggesting that Ton—”

“SWEET SUFFERING FUCK DO NOT LET THAT MAN ANYWHERE NEAR THE CABIN I SPENT THREE WEEKS ASSURING MYSELF WAS UTTERLY ISOLATED, OFF THE GRID, AND COULD NOT BE FOUND BY ANY OTHER HUMAN BEINGS UNLESS BEING SHOWN, STEVEN.”

“….uh. Right, Buck. You’re right. I get it. Need some space.”

Bucky took a deep breath.

“Steve, listen. We gotta get to the cabin as soon as we can. The thing is, it’s not exactly just a cabin, like I said. When I said we got it from Nat’s friend, that was mostly true. She, uh, she stayed there once, with Clint.”

“Together, like, making time?” Steve looked like he was being very, very careful to not show anything on his face.

He sucked at it.

“Not…exactly, then.” Bucky decided it was time to rip off the damn bandage. “Steve, the cabin isn’t a holiday resort. It’s part of something Stephen Strange called the Plot Divergence. He said if we get to the cabin before 6:00 this evening, we’ll have 24 hours for the rooms in the cabin to fix what we missed. Strange says if we go into each room within one day we’ll see the different ways our lives coulda gone. And at the end of it, I guess, well, we choose.”

“Choose?”

“Yeah. At the end of the day we get to choose the plot line that we want for our lives. I mean, our, if you, well, if you want that, Steve.”

Steve looked out into the blizzard, then back at Bucky.

“We better start walking. I don’t wanna miss that cabin, Buck.”

 

Fortunately, they were both still in the habit of traveling like a Howlie. It took a few minutes to bundle up necessities then to start trekking towards this place. If it hadn’t been for the time crunch, Bucky thought it would have been romantic, in a disaster movie kind of way. They headed up a few miles and did get enough signal to guide from. They were a little cold and slightly out of breath when they reached the final crest in the immediate vicinity. There was a gorgeous log cabin nestled in the trees, looking all the world like an insipid painting designed to be put on Christmas cards. Even so, it did look nice.

The boys trekked in, stood at the front door of the cabin, and Steve eagerly looked at his watch.

“We made it! What do we do? Is there a key or anything?”

Bucky shook his head. “If I understood Strange correctly, the cabin is only here for us, for today. Like, if we can see it then it’s already working, so I guess we go in, huh?” He tested the knob and found it turned. Steve had flattened himself along the other side of the frame—Bucky was going to pull his gun to enter, but then, why would he need one if they were the only two people who could see the cabin? He shook his head once to clear the conundrum and opened the door to the cabin. He felt Steve behind him, stomping boots on the mat in the entry. Both men heaved off their packs and looked at each other.

“Nat said we can come in, get comfortable, all that. I don’t know how the rest happens. Maybe the woman does the rest?”

“What woman, Buck?”

“She’s the one that knew all the other ways, Strange said.”

“What is her name?”

“It could be Rita,” Bucky started, “maybe Rebecca?”

Steve shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. So, maybe there’s a place we could warm up? I’m pretty sure we still do normal stuff like eat and sleep and…” he trailed off, realizing sleeping arrangements were anything but settled.

Bucky nodded, then put his hand on the door to his right. They could warm up a bit, maybe grab a quick bite, hot chocolate and a conversation? This was it. Counseling, more training, couples’ retreats, no matter what it took. He was going to embrace the 21st century and, if he was lucky, Steve.

So it was all a bit strange when he opened the door and walked smack into the Great Goddamned Depression.


	2. Smacked Right in the Beguine, Dammit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of many possible paths Bucky and Steve might have traveled.

**December 23, 1936**

He’s home. Not his parents' house, Bucky’s home; it’s like he’s watching it and living through it at the same time. It would be overwhelming if he wasn’t so, so happy to be there again. He could see every inch of the old place. The tiny stove and sink area, the wooden floor with thin, ratty rugs, the coat tree. He remembers. He and Steve are… right there. On the couch.

“You got your head all smashed in and all you get is this,” Steve is mumbling, “it ain’t much. Sorry.” He’s holding ice on Bucky’s jaw as he holds out his present. On the low coffee table there’s the obviously large gift addressed to Steve. They’re sitting close together. Radio softly playing in the background, smell of real butter shortbread, not oleo. Bucky remembers the coat sitting in the box, all of the wrapping paper with clean lines and crisp corners for once because he had asked Rebecca to do it for him. It had cost him half of a cigarette.

He bought a jacket. Becca wrapped it. But how did they get here to the couch at Steve’s?

 

George Barnes was a right Irish bastard. Always had been, always would be. Now _that_ , Bucky wouldn’t have seen past 1945 anyhow, because shortly after he was pronounced MIA the second goddamned time (like putting his mam through it the one time, Azzano, wasn’t bad enough) his father gave up the ghost. Went out, got drunk, came home, died. That was the way his sister Rebecca told it. She told him everything, after he got his memories back and made peace with the fact he’d always have a few stray people roamin’ around in his belfry and he sucked it up anyways and went to visit her and her son (Jamie, because Bucky needed to cry AGAIN like he needed a hole in his head…AGAIN), Lord, Jesus.

He was losing the plot.

The pertinent information was that his father had come home and died. He had collected his last pay packet, though, and his boss at the Navy Shipyard probably knew what was coming because there was an envelope inside the pay packet with a phone number Mam should call that Friday next. When Mam had made some funeral arrangements she called this man, a Mr. Lemons (Becca remembered that because everybody joked about life giving you lemons and death giving you Lemons) and he invited her over to the shipyard. He said Mr. Barnes was kindly remembered as a man who’d take the newest ones out for a pint after work and show them the ropes, and they’d had a quick whiparound to help out with final expenses. Becca said their Mam wasn’t sure about it, then Mr. Lemons mentioned that he had a daughter Bucky’s age, and Bucky and Steve had once stopped a boy when he was getting entirely too familiar at a dance. He said he was sorry he couldn’t have met the young Sgt. Barnes to thank him for his service to the country and the donations were the least they could do for her, seeing as how they had kind of made Steve family, too, and so they were doubly a gold star family and all.

Rebecca had told him the envelope contained almost $19.00. They saved, stretched, really made it last. They were so grateful it almost took away the other feelings in the house, which they never spoke of. Becca said to their mam’s last breath the feeling of relief they both knew as soon as George died was not acknowledged. George was there, then he was not.

Bucky could believe that. He never could have named the feeling he had developed for his father. He would have said some bullshit about respecting thy elders, or asked Steve to label what Bucky ought to have felt about George. Whatever that feeling should have been, it didn’t need a name because he knew how he felt. He hated his father more than any man alive until the day he met Dr. Zola.

Even then, it may have been a tie.

George wasn’t obvious about it. Not in the beginning, at least as Bucky remembered it. He’d say it was nice to see Bucky getting out and dancing with a girl that might be marriage material. Then when Bucky switched up girls, George would raise an eyebrow and warn him he didn’t want any brats running around until wedding bells were ringing. Bucky came in to his own home the day they buried Sarah Rogers and George said it was a shame they hadn’t left the window open longer so Steve’s spirit could have flown out as well to save money on the inevitable casket. Bucky had gone to punch him, stopping only because his mother was in the room. He didn’t give a damn how much damage he’d do his da, but his mam was another thing entirely.

Near Christmas Bucky had his plan in place. He had been saving to buy Stevie more pencils, but it was an unusually cold winter and he was already thinking ahead about cough medicines and breathing treatments. He had seen a warmer jacket that Steve could put under his heaviest coat for two layers of protection against the wind. He had enough money to get it, and it would even save him money in the long run. He already knew he’d be moving in there soon. Even Winifred talked as though it was a done deal. He brought the jacket home and Becca wrapped it up, then they snuck a smoke out back.

Bucky knew now Winifred had always known they were smoking back there. He often wondered why she only “caught” them occasionally.

He wanted so much to ask her it hurt. Because he’s _there_ again. That night he should have given Stevie his jacket. He’s right there again. _He can choose this time_.

Bucky would have needed to leave by 5:25 to avoid the worst of George’s wrath after his “pint” at the bar. “A” pint was never less than four, and was never left alone. He’d have at least one small glass of something before dinner and another during if Winifred said nothing. Bucky should have grabbed his things but—

was too late.

George came through the door and Bucky rehearsed his best defenses. The most obvious one was to point out he was one less mouth to feed.

“Hey, da, I’m off for the night. Mam did some beef but I’m missing out!”

The line of George’s mouth told him he’d miscalculated. Bucky backed up a step and tried it again.

“Sorry, da, I didn’t forget anything going here, did I? I’m just out for the evening, Steve will be here for Christmas Eve tomorrow.” Now he could see in the arms, the eyes. George wasn’t listening at all. He was drunk. Much drunker than usual, something that took _work_ to achieve. Now Bucky had two problems; before he could leave there’d be mam and Rebecca to look after. George might fall asleep after dinner but he might just get mean before he’d do it.

Or, he’d get mean now. That happened, too.

“James, what would you say if I told you your little runt friend has been down at the docks looking for somebody to shove their cock up his ass?”

Bucky remembers exactly what happened next. His mother had gasped, ordered Rebecca to go do homework, then came to stand… there. She’s there right now. He’s living this again.

He remembers what he said.

“Da, everybody down at McDougal’s tells stories after a couple of pints.”

Okay. Now his mother should bring a large drink, try to get George to sit down, then go back into the kitchen. Bucky should put the box away under his bed and steal a big belt of scotch himself before he sits down for a dinner he has no appetite for.

That’s not what’s going to happen now.

He’s turning around, box in hand, hissing, “what the hell did you just say?”

His father’s eyes widen and his mother has gone pale.

“What, boy?”

George’s face is red and sweaty. His fists have clenched and Bucky should see the punch coming but he doesn’t. As pain blooms across the right side of his face he hears Becca scream from the stairs and his mam making little noises. He can hear his da saying something about not tolerating that little fairy in their home any more, no matter how harmless he’s been in the past. His mother is sniffling. Bucky hopes his father won’t hit her. It grounds him. He’s not done yet.

“Steve is worth ten of the assholes down at the docks and that includes you,” Bucky snarls. His jaw hurts like a son of a bitch but it’s not what he cares about now. George pushes his son _hard_ , hard enough he’s landed on the floor, snapping the crown of his head on the door jamb. He can feel blood seeping into his hair, stuck in place with Brylcreem. He wouldn’t care that his da is running his mouth again, except that now he knows what happens next; he gets it. He waits until he can mostly stand upright, then straightens his shoulders and opens the door. He didn't hide the present; he has it now. He looks back at his family and wishes he wasn’t about to break his mother’s heart.

“Have it your way, Da. If fairies aren’t welcome in your home, then I’d best be leaving.”

 

Oh, Lord. He can hear his mam crying, really crying. His father is screaming something the neighbors will talk about for weeks. It doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. Bucky walks to Steve’s tiny apartment.

He’s home now. His real home. He’s sitting on the couch with Steve. Perfect, imperfect Steve. Bucky has always thought he’s beautiful. Bucky will give him the coat, tomorrow. Bucky will show him how they can split the rent so Steve won’t have to work, tomorrow. He’ll joke his coat looks like it belongs on this coat rack anyway, tomorrow.

Tonight, he says he’s feeling cold, would it be all right if they slept in the same bed? They’ve done this before. They’ve done…some stuff, before. But it wasn’t for both of them. It was sort of, Bucky just behind Steve desperately hoping he won’t get up and leave while Bucky is sleep-warm and hard as a rock from smelling and touching Steve all night.

He says he’s cold. He tells Steve he’s worried about a concussion. Steve carefully agrees Bucky isn’t in his right mind, for sure. With that as his invitation, and Steve reminding him they both still like girls, Bucky finally gets to put his hands on Steve. To wrap his fingers around the hard length and whisper ridiculous lies like, “ain’t no girl that can do what you do to me, Stevie,” and “I’ll always take care of you, never be without you.”

Bucky is seeing it, and he’s living it. _And oh, what a life that might have been_.

He stands there and allows himself to dream. Until he hears—

“Buck?”

Bucky’s chest collapses and he forgets how to breathe.

_He hadn’t been watching that alone._

He can’t speak.

“Bucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on notlucy's "Begin the Beguine."


	3. Not In Front of the Kid, Dammit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky enter their first room together.

 

For a few seconds he has the strangest feeling he’s not anywhere at all. Not here, not there, not…then? Or now.

All that time. When they could have slept in that one rickety bed, laughing until their eyes meet like _that_ , and use fingers, lips, tongues, all the best ways to burrow directly into the center of someone’s soul. So much time. Not hiding from each other, not having to look at reflections as he walks where Bucky can’t see him.

All that time, and they missed it.

He can’t stand the pull of the room another second. Bucky whirls around and pushes Steve out into the hallway. He isn’t trying to hurt him, only get the hell out of there. He has the horrible feeling at the top of his throat where he knows he’s about to cry, no matter what his brain has to say on the subject. He looks around wildly at the entryway of the home, gleaming dark wood and warm lighting. His head is full. He wants to shake everything loose, stop the horrible pounding that sounds like the house is echoing his crazy heartbeat.

“Steve, that didn’t happen. I mean, I know it didn’t happen that way. Or it did happen that way up to a point and then I sat down and had dinner which was burned and I had the present and you were there waiting and it made me so mad, I was just so fucking MAD at you!”

Steve looks like he was going to wrap up Bucky in the strongest and softest hug he could give Bucky, and Bucky wants it so much he has no choice but to sabotage this whole clusterfuck. He wasn’t still back there. Nothing much changed, in the end, right?

“Me, Buck?”

Oh god, now Steve is staring at him, and because he hasn’t moved from the closed door’s frame Steve’s _This Is My Sad Face_ is all Bucky could see. So, he chooses not to see it. He closes his eyes and pushes right on through.

“You. I hated you so much, punk. It, my parents, fighting, it made moving in with you a necessity, not some grand gesture or adventure we chose. You didn’t have to plan how to get your sister out of the way when Da was drinking, and your mother was so proud of you and loved you no matter what, and your ma wasn’t stupid, Stevie, she looked at you. She saw you, she knew exactly what you,” he ducks as a string of snot starts running down his nose, “exactly _what we were_. She believed in you and protected you and she tried to make my mam talk about stuff that wasn’t any of her business, wasn’t anybody’s fucking business,” his momentum is building, “and I know my dad’s friend saw you go there, Steve, I _know_ you did, and you think I didn’t know how you looked to them? Huh?” Bucky makes his voice a parody of a good time girl. “I’m so scared sir, I’m not that way, sir, the kind who’s running around looking for a little company tonight! Maybe a dance? Oh gosh, I can’t drink that!”

Bucky really can’t breathe now. “What else, huh? Maybe a little lipstick to leave ‘round his dick? Let him get rough with you even if you said no?” He wipes his at his face with a bit of his right sleeve.

“I knew about everything, Steve. All the dock guys wanting to bend you over and make you scream and nobody ever said anything about it to YOU,” Bucky’s not sure he can stop now, “but they alllll made sure I knew! Why do you think I made time with every loose girl in Brooklyn who owned a decent pair of dancing shoes? Because every fucking time I saw you I was waiting for fucking bruises up your ribcage and some better guy’s teeth marks cutting every inch of your fucking body. ‘Just go back to your folks’ house tonight, Buck, so I can ride this guy’s dick,’ Bucky snapped in a grotesque falsetto. Then his voice deepened with a terrible scowl, “it was gonna happen. I was waiting.”

Bucky isn’t ignoring the tears streaming down Steve’s face, he’s enjoying them. This is all his fault, after all. He wants kiss them away, so of course he does anything but that.

“I tried, I tried and tried and tried, every morning I woke up next to you I told myself that you can’t be running with half the fairies they said. You'd turn around and say, ‘I’m only for you, Buck, I’m yours.’ And you’d kiss me for hours and tell me you’d never done _nothin’_ your whole life because you were waiting for me. Please, please tell me the truth. Please,” he’s certainly crying now and possibly ruined the only thing in his whole life he ever really wanted, so he might as well finish it off. “If I had been braver? If I had come over that night, would you have picked me, in the end? Would you have considered it?”

Bucky’s deflated. Even with the solid wood door he can’t hold himself up anymore. This was exactly what Nat had said he shouldn’t do—go on the journey and don’t make judgments too early. Well, perhaps someday he’ll be able to tell himself he just needed to assert his autonomy here, so this was all deliberate. This was precisely what he wanted to have happen.

He used the heel of his right hand to wipe away the rest of the worst of the tears. Then he couldn’t put it off any longer, so he looked Steve in the eye and muttered, “I’m so sorry. I never hated you, Steve, not for one goddamned second. When I was in cryo I used to think to myself that the blue temperature setting within the ice seemed like your blue eyes. Even when I didn’t know who you were I knew what you were. I knew you were part of home I’d never have again. I’m just, a coward. I was a coward and I’m just so fucking sorry.”

With that, Bucky hangs his head and tried to regain some composure, if not dignity. Maybe he could salvage some feelings by telling Nat their little slideshow of Steve’s eyes was wrong.

And then.

There’s a warmth around his neck, cupping his jaw. Calloused, dry, gentle. Bucky’s brain is confused, and his gut is whispering so, so quietly. Just in case Hydra would use this against him in the future.

_Please don’t pretend, Steve; it will only hurt more._

“Bucky, hey! Buck, will you please look at me? There’s something I think you should see. And then we’ll talk. Can you give me a few minutes? Even one minute?”

Bucky could give Steve absolutely anything he wanted if it meant he wasn’t leaving. Cars, jets, penthouse suites in 30 major cities? Steve would have it in less than 24 hours and Bucky wouldn’t break a sweat. Nuclear codes, launched satellites, or the sold-out Lip Kit by one of the Kardashians (telling them apart was simply not a cerebral function he could spare time for) would take Bucky’s contacts up to 72 hours. Quality simply can’t be rushed on some things.

 

Bucky blinked up. Naturally he’d follow Steve. Nothing good in life ever came from the two of them being separated. The warmth on this face is swallowed up by the warmth he was caught in now. The full-body hug that promises he’ll be okay. The type of comfort he hasn’t felt once, not even a degree of this comfort, since the day he failed to die by falling from a train. He chases the warmth til they’re both standing upright.

“Buck, I didn’t know the rooms start without us. I thought they’d stay normal rooms until we got to see the paths diverging. So, when you opened that door, I opened the door beside it because I thought it was the guest bathroom. Uh, needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a toilet. If we go in together I hope you can see what I saw. Can we try?”

Bucky sniffed one last time then nodded. Steve pushed the beautifully varnished door, then tentatively put his arm around Buck’s shoulder. They walked in together, which was a great deal more dignified than Bucky’s first instinct to hide behind Steve and peek over his massive shoulder blade.

It’s not a guest bathroom now; it’s a cheery little kitchen obviously located in a post-war brownstone that’s been lovingly updated. And there they are, just the two of them, obviously enjoying themselves as they put globs of cookie dough in an even circles across a pan. When it's time for the dough to go in, Steve reminds Bucky that he mustn't touch the oven door because it will be very hot.

From their perch at the doorjamb, Bucky turns to Steve and raises an eyebrow. Steve raises an eyebrow back. Then, they watch as Steve lovingly pours an apple juice into a cup with cartoon animals on it and set it in front of Bucky with a straw. Steve’s other eyebrow raises and he finds it’s taken Bucky’s other eyebrow with it. _Well hell_ , the eyebrows seem to say, _this one is too good to pass up_. They decide they’d better walk into the kitchen and see what the deal with the apple juice is.

With that invitation, they can watch and be in the scene at the same time. Bucky does as he did before and starts to slip-slide into himself. Oh. Goodness. Bucky feels as though he is fading away, smaller, smaller, tiny. Not tiny in time, but…tiny in a part of himself he didn’t know he could still reach.

Bucky feels himself probe the dimensions of the make-believe Tiny Bucky without leaving the head-space itself. When was he ever this tiny? The last time he felt this safe and loved the United States was still recovering from the Great War. The war to end all wars, he would have thought sardonically, except he was swinging his feet and enjoying his juice too much.

Steve on the other hand, hadn’t slipped into himself in a room before. He kind of pictured it like a movie special effect, like when a ghost goes to jump back into its body as it comes alive again. But it wasn’t that dramatic. He stood there thinking of how much he loved his friend, how cozy the kitchen looked, the dishes, pots and pans feeling exactly as though he would have picked them. Above the normal dishes there seems to be a small collection of children’s things, too haphazard and worn to be a set. He wonders where these came from. A nephew? A neighbor? A…?

As soon as he had this thought he felt himself within the room. He’s there, on the outside, watching all this happen. But now he’s also _here_ , and here…is full of thoughts, desires, and a love so boundless and giving he instantly gets what he’s feeling. The love one has for a child that is theirs. The sort of galloping heart-space that never grows smaller with use. A heart-space, desire and love he was sure he had never felt before. Sure, he wanted to love Bucky, sure he wanted to protect Bucky, but this was the first time he had actively asked himself whether or not he would be hurting Bucky by feeding him too many cookies, especially if he layered them with peanut butter and ice cream.

Wait. What the hell was going on in his head?

They look at each other as the cookies start their baking. He sees Bucky in there, smiling through this new Bucky. He can feel how much effort it takes to let his Bucky settle here, willing to live in a simple but profound peace. Steve still in the Now place hesitates to show too much love; he has a lover, not a child. Steve that’s in the Room place pities his shadow’s limits. How else to show someone you’re never going to hurt them? What possible better way could there be to show you have someone’s back? Are they such limited creatures all love must be sexual all the time? Of course not. It all comes down to caring for Bucky. Steve can show the depth of his love in how he cares for Bucky when Bucky asks him to.

After that— _God_ , Steve thinks, _I’ve never really told him this. I never said, “you’re mine, James Buchanan, any and every way you come to me.” I knew when I lost him the first time I never truly said that. Of course he thinks I don’t love him, if love is retreating to our simplest selves. I asked myself if it was _acceptable _to love him that way when I should have seen it’s the only way._

He puts an oven mitt on his left hand and checks to see the cookies are done right. They’re exactly how Bucky likes them—crisp edges, soft centers. He reminds Bucky to stay back and transfers them all to a rack. After they cool for a moment, Steve shows Bucky how to carefully smear peanut butter on one and jelly on the other, then he presses ice cream in the middle and garnishes the tops. They are so incredibly sweet he’s afraid they might throw up. Then he tells himself there are lots of things in the world that have honestly hurt Bucky, this disgusting feast was certainly not a game changer.

After eating four of the cookie monstrosities, Bucky lays down on a couch in the den. Steve wipes the counter then heads on in with him. He turns on a movie he knows they both like, and settles for Buck to rest up against him. Everything is content, in this space. This could really be their life? Could he have this all the time? Logically there are sticking points, mostly to do with how Bucky ages. Maybe he knows instinctively that they usually act like adults. _And acting’s all it is_ , he hears himself say, _do you ever really know what you’re doing?_ He looks around the den trying to piece together what this life might be. They’re in Brooklyn, he knows without looking, because he’d feel it if they weren’t. There’s a laptop charging next to his sofa here and it’s the heavy-duty sort you’d expect if he still worked with SHIELD. The kid-related things are kept to a minimum, he’s willing to bet Bucky is grown up much of the time. He fondly remembers the way Clint looked when he got to introduce the team to his family. There’s something about having children that changes the bones of a house. It’s in every room you look at, even if the child never goes in there. So, Bucky’s not little for much time, maybe it’s therapy or playacting?

Whatever it is, he loves it, and Steve hopes Bucky feels what Steve’s doing. By petting his hair, whispering softly, even if it’s babbling to babble. He hopes Bucky can feel that stream of love that Steve feels, now that he’s seen what it means here.

Bucky is starting to stir a bit, and Steve is debating a bathroom break, when suddenly the side door of the house opens and lets some brisk air into the kitchen. They both hear the latch click and their eyes lock on each other. Steve’s suddenly glad he’s still sitting down and holding the bulk of his partner; it makes it more difficult to jump back into himself while trying to put Bucky behind him.

It does not satisfactorily explain a chorus of four men caught gawping at the warmly toned, “mummy’s home, darlings!” But it does explain later why mummy hears four men turn around and collectively gasp, “Peggy?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on notlucy's Perchance


	4. Past is Prologue, Dammit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World War Threesome is still an option. Just not the option Bucky desired.

"Peggy?"

Bucky was sitting upright, jerked awake by the sound of a voice he had _thought_ he remembered. He hadn't remembered it, though. Not properly. Peggy's voice had depth and richness to it, the kind of voice that suggested she was done being treated like a little girl. She commanded respect with her words and inspired love with the warmth that Bucky heard whenever she had spoken to Steve. Bucky was certain he had hated that warmth. _I'm not jealous_ , he pleaded to his own conscience, _only a man who just ate four ice cream and peanut butter sandwiches while basking in Steve's undivided attention and understandably taking a moment to digest the fact Steve's only true love is standing in the doorway in black yoga pants and a ponytail simply_ screaming _MY SEX APPEAL IS TIMELESS before he hurls all over the den sofa._ **That's all.**

He thought about the purpose of this cabin, and all the warnings Strange had intoned about the cabin showing many paths for the two of them. He never said anything about the three of them. Then the comprehension hit. It walloped him so damn hard he fell right out of Tiny Bucky's mind; Strange didn't guarantee they'd choose the same plot line. They might agree to walk out the front door and then the door will crash shut leaving Steve behind with the plot line he chooses for himself. Didn't he tell Nat she should take the person she most wants to return to? Who she wanted to return to. That didn't mean Clint would want the same path. 

Now he sees Peggy put a tender hand on Tiny Bucky as she croons, "hello, darling. Mummy missed you while she was in London. Tell me; what have I missed since last Thursday?"

"I was sad at first but daddy told me I could have all the raisins I wanted if I took my bitamin every day and to not tell mummy daddy said the s-word because we had cookie jelly snacks." 

Outside Bucky catches the flicker of amusement in Peggy's eye that belies her thoughts on this information. She did make a good show of it, though, sternly reprimanding her husband for such an atrocious dinner plan before she turns to Tiny Bucky to whisper, "I bet they were delicious though, poppet. Now, why don't we get you your vitamin, not your bitamin, silly goose! After your vitamin gummy I think we'd better check my holdall to see if I brought you anything back from London!"

Bucky was so excited he could hardly stand still long enough to be given his vitamin. Outside himself, he pretends his heart isn't breaking when he finds a Paddington Bear nestled in a pile of books she will read to him in the night when he wakes up. The story of a resilient and adorable bear adopted by an English family hurts him.

"How did you know the bear was for me?" Adult Bucky laughs when he hears himself but then remembers he's not literally four years old. He could figure out buying a bear if he chose to put his mind to it.

Tiny Bucky's eyes grow wider as Peggy recounts how the bear stopped mummy and said he was supposed to be Bucky's and maybe she knew him. Peggy brought home a beautiful bear for him but he can't have Paddington. He's not good enough to have nice bears who tell mummy to find Bucky. The perfect English family is pretend. That's who they are, right? A child with two parents that love and cherish one another. The dream family he could not have imagined every time they shut the door of the cryo containment module.

 _No_ , he tries to whisper to himself, _that isn't who we are here._ Here, Steve has the woman he would die defending no matter what decade they were in. Peggy has the sickly, aggressive young man she fell for before he grew a foot taller and wider. That's how you can tell they belong together, because she saw him for what he was on the inside. Not the physical manifestation of who he could be. 

Now Peggy is looking at her lover like the week they spent apart was endless. When Bucky barely whispers, "where daddy's present?" mummy sounds mysterious when she says, "don't you worry, poppet, I'll give him his present after bedtime tonight." Bucky turns around in time to see Steve looking for all the world like a bottle of pink champagne-- blushing a gorgeous shade of rose and ready to pop his cork. With Peggy. For Peggy. 

It feels like Bucky is a fish, suddenly caught on an excruciating hook reeling him in. Tiny Bucky doesn't seem to be there anymore. It feels like a different, lighthearted Bucky is watching Steve crossing his enormous arms in mock consternation that he shouldn't have to wait for his gift. He watches Peggy's lips part before she winds her arms around Steve's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. A kiss that turns filthy, Steve thrusting his tongue in her mouth as his hands rub her ass. Her ass that looked good in a uniform but devastating in form-fitting stretch trousers. The hook in his soul pulls him, running to the door without even looking to see if Steve would follow. Can they be separated like that? Could Steve shut himself in while Bucky is in the entryway of the cabin?

He doesn't--can't--wait around to see if Steve is on his heels. Not when three seconds ago it looked as though Steve would drop to his knees and worship Peggy's body in a way he never could during the war. Strange never said what happens if somebody wants to stay in a room. Will the whole cabin become a full house containing (but not limited to) that room? 

He's already exhausted from confronting his father and crying on Steve about how much he wishes they could have been together before the United States Selective Service System invited him to a playdate in the ETO. He crosses the entryway and sits on a low-lying bench that seems to be hewn from a tree outside. He keeps trying to focus on that so he doesn't imagine what's happening in the room he just left. _Is Steve kissing around her jaw? Teasing her nipple through her shirt? Gently sucking marks into her neck while she runs her hands over his imposing shoulders?_

One of the only things Hydra gave him that he wouldn't return to the store is an impeccable internal clock. If he says to give something five minutes, he'll know when the time is up as surely as if he had a stopwatch. He takes a shuddering breath. If Steve isn't back in an hour, he'll open another door. Whether it's a door to a room or the door to the outside Bucky will determine in 59.5 minutes. 

He closes his eyes and sings to himself. It's a mistake to think of the Russian folk songs but when he decided to distract himself getting furious remembering those songs sure fit the bill. He was once forced to hear 'Korobeinik' and 'Kalinka' 125 hours straight because they found a glass shard he had taken off the floor. Suicide protocols were then burned into his brain. He was only allowed to stop the awful music by agreeing to a "recalibration" so he'd be too weak to kill himself. The anger definitely pushed back on the images of Steve and Peggy he's burned in his mind; the ironic proof that the universe is one big joke. When Zola worked on him Bucky tried to imagine Steve when he desperately needed to leave his body behind and float away.  Now, he'd give a lot to not remember Steve with his arms around Peggy, hips pressing into each other with a growl.

In the 39th minute Bucky hears the click of a doorknob and bolts upright like a cheesy movie nightmare sequence, easy to do with super soldier abs. Steve has shut the door and seems lost, like he had never been in this entry before. What's going on? Steve looks positively defeated. Like he's lost his life with Peggy yet again. He braces himself by squaring his shoulders before he walks towards Bucky, then scoops him into a hug. His red eyes and swollen nose make sense with this bone-crushing embrace.

 

Steve made his choice and came to say goodbye to him.

He feels nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Until he realizes he's sobbing, keening into Steve's sweater while he rocks Bucky like a crying baby. He's saying it over and over again. What is it? What is it?

"Bucky, no. No. I'm not going back. I'm not," Steve is whispering in his ear. "I only stayed to see what else was in the relationship because you clearly weren't Little all the time, I wanted to know what that meant."

Bucky can't look up yet. He mumbles, "What? What did it mean?"

  
Steve takes a deep breath and laughs a touch. Bucky did not think this was funny. At all.

"Buck, they're a triad. We're all committed to each other. A threesome. We even share one big bed, and have a whole sex room in the basement! Peggy ties me up and makes out with you while I can't move! I'm telling you-- it's a true three-way relationship!"

Bucky stammers for a bit, then comes out with, "should we go back? Do you want that? I would. If you want that, I would." He feels raw and scary. It's a decision they can't reverse. "Steve? Do you want her? I can learn. I can do it."

Steve looks stricken. He's cradling Bucky's head in his hands now, running a finger along his jaw and down his neck. He sounds defeated.

"This is...tough, Buck. This is real tough," he whispers as he closes his eyes. "I guess were doing this. The truth is, when I came for you in Austria, I had jumped out of Howard's plane with a parachute. It was all set. But by the time I pulled the chute, I could feel it was completely unnecessary. To be honest, I regretted pulling it because it made me an easier target. But I also knew I had to, because if I didn't pull the shoot and I was wrong, then I was going to get Pegs in real trouble. I know that sounds like a bunch of publicity bullshit, but it's true. I really did pull the shoot so Pegs would see I had pulled it."

Steve isn't here at the moment. He's back in Europe, walking in the forest.  
  
"I got about halfway down before I realized I had never done anything that was truly adrenaline driven. When I went after the man who shot Dr. Erskine I was so busy seeing if I could pump my arms and legs, breathe as much as I wanted. See if I could stop him before he hurt Pegs, Howard, anybody. So, jumping out of the plane was the first time I saw things in slow motion. I know you've had that happen, I've seen it in your face a few times. It seems like everything slows down just enough that I'm not really behind, it's more like I'm in the perfect position to react just before the other guy does. Well, I found that out over Austria. And I found it out again and again, every time we smashed through another wall or broke down another door."

Bucky can't speak. There's a lump in his throat, strangling his whisper. "Steve, what does this have to do with tonight?"

"Bucky, there were 10 million fucking things I could've done to try and survive the plane crash," he cried. "I knew putting it down would be enough. I thought about jumping, I thought about landing and then punching out the windshield, I even thought about kicking out while I was drowning. But I didn't. You've seen the photos. I was sitting in the fucking cockpit, waiting. I wasn't waiting for someone to rescue me. I was waiting for you to come get me, Buck."

Bucky grabs Steve hands and presses them to his chest. Tries to ground them on this ridiculous tree bench in an imaginary cabin with no fixed place except time. Steve continues, despite his tears.

"Bucky....Buck, I thought I was going to see you again and I was so excited. The colder I got the worse that desire got, because then it occurred to me that maybe I didn't get go to heaven. I had killed people. I had helped others kill people. Maybe I wouldn't go to heaven because I had let you fall? Maybe because I was technically a suicide they wouldn't let me in? But I kept telling myself that hell isn't cold. So I sat there and waited for you. Your spirit, Bucky. I was still waiting for you the second I woke up on the ridiculous set they had put me in in the middle of Shield."

Steve looks Bucky in the eye and speaks his absolute truth.

"I loved Peggy, I'd love her now. But she's not you, and I don't want to share you. I'm in love with you. Only you. I don't ever want to wake up cold again, asking where you are."

Bucky nods a little through the tears falling on both of them.

"I'll always choose you, Steve. No matter what's behind these doors, we go or stay together. I won't leave this cabin until we're together, with all that means. I promise, sweetheart. Not without you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on notlucy's Crayons and Perchance.


End file.
